


My McKay

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-08
Updated: 2007-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:19:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>None of the – dozens, hundreds – of Replicator ships are headed toward Atlantis right this second, and while John appreciates, understands Rodney's urge to start running simulations, predicting outcomes, plotting out as many lines of defense as they can muster against an armada this size, he knows they can't keep this up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My McKay

None of the – dozens, hundreds – of Replicator ships are headed toward Atlantis right this second, and while John appreciates, understands Rodney's urge to start running simulations, predicting outcomes, plotting out as many lines of defense as they can muster against an armada this size, he knows they can't keep this up. There are mistakes hovering in the wings of their exhaustion – disasters just looking for an excuse to sidle close, find a crack in their armor, wedge an elbow and hip into the space left unprotected by grief and work their way in. He scratches the back of his neck, closes his eyes for just a second, lets Elizabeth's face rise up to greet him, sees Jeannie's prone body, Wallace's grimace of pain – forces all of it, every last part, to fall away. "You gotta sleep," he tells Rodney, and his voice is rusty, tired.

Rodney's hands are already busy, fingers hitting his keyboard, flexing in need. "I can set up a program that will . . . "

"I'm not asking, McKay."

Rodney clenches his jaw – John can see his struggle to find the right words written in the tremor of muscles and bone. "I . . . can't," he says at last, and John winces at the memory of how those words tasted in his own mouth.

"Yes, you can," he says.

"If I don't work, if I don't – "

"I know." And that shuts Rodney down, makes him turn on his stool and look at John with wide, searching eyes.

"Then – "

"I'm gonna need you. To fix this," John says, gesturing at the screen, at the red blips that show the odds stacked against them. "I'm gonna need your brain _functioning_ , you understand?"

Rodney's lips thin. "Well that's nice, no, really, but exactly how do you imagine I'm going to _sleep_? Or did you think a nice exercise of 'count the Aurora-class warships' would work as well as the archetypal sheep?"

John grabs his elbow and drags him up off the stool, pulls him resolutely toward the door. "Come on."

Rodney splutters, stumbles, tries to wrench his arm away. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Plenty," John says, voice stretched to the point just before breaking, hustling them into the transporter and hitting the sensor for staff quarters. "And I'm not looking to add one more thing." He pulls Rodney out of the transporter, down the corridor, ignoring his feeble protests that they're headed the wrong way. He opens the door to his own room, lets Rodney go and thinks the door closed behind them. "Sleep."

Rodney turns to face him, arms folded mutinously across his chest. "And what are you planning to do? Play sudoku through the night? _Watch_ me? My own personal guard, now, are you?"

John steps forward, staring him down, angry, gut lit up by the thousand shards of emotional shrapnel he's absorbed these past few days. "Swear to god . . ."

"You didn't fail her," Rodney says, apparently unmoved by John's tone or his proximity. "Jesus – if we're playing this game, I win, okay? I win – I rewrote the base code, I allowed them the – "

"And _my_ job is to _protect_ you all, no matter what," John spits. "You come up with some hair-brained scheme? Fine – my job's to pick up a gun and cover your back while you put your genius into play. I'm the one who rescues you. I'm the one who doesn't _let you die_."

Rodney turns his head away slightly, closes his eyes and swallows hard. "You're sleeping too."

John huffs his scorn, unfastening his holster, his belt. "Yeah, sure, I'll grab a nap on the couch."

"No." Rodney looks at him again, chin raised, expression defiant. "No."

And John glances at him, double-takes, reads everything Rodney's saying without – for once – offering up a spoken word. "We – . . . Rodney . . ."

"I mean it."

"You can't just _decide_."

"Yes. I can." And Rodney crowds him, closes that last two inches of space, space that was supposed to be thick with hostility, manipulation, protection, not this – and kisses him, a brush of dry lips over his own, a chase of breath against his face. John reaches out, grabs Rodney's arms to steady himself.

"This is about the best idea since . . . the last one," he says dryly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," John breathes, and he leans in, slants his own kiss over Rodney's mouth, grips Rodney's arms harder when he feels the wet touch of a tongue against his lips, when he tilts his head and lets the vital, stubborn heat of Rodney bleed into him. "God, Rodney . . ."

"We gotta sleep," Rodney breathes, forehead against John's own. "We need to – "

"Yeah," John agrees, not letting go, and it's a long, slow march of minutes before their fingers move to slide buttons through buttonholes, unfasten belt buckles and loosen laces – minutes more before they're easing into bed, awkward and too large, their faces burning with something they can't explain. It takes more time than it should, John thinks, to find a way to fit together, to slide knees and arms into welcoming spaces and lay their heads down. But god, when they do . . .

"It's not your fault," Rodney whispers, thumb rubbing circles against the wing of John's shoulder-blade.

"Or yours," John says low, and shivers when Rodney pulls in a breath so deep his belly touches John's own.


End file.
